Chapter 45 45
That kind of kiss that made the air evaporate, that pressed memories into your bones. She moaned softly against me, arms wrapping around my neck as I pulled her tighter, until our bodies fit like puzzle pieces.
My hand slipped under the robe again, fingers tracing the curve of her waist. She arched into me as I kissed down her throat, tasting every inch like she was mine to memorize.
“You smell like spice and power,” I growled against her collarbone. “And you taste even better.”
Krystal gasped as I lifted her effortlessly from the couch and laid her down across the cool marble coffee table, her hair spilling around her like a crown.
“This table,” I murmured, lips brushing her navel, “needs new memories.”
“You're outrageous,” she whispered breathlessly.
“You love it,” I grinned, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses across her hip, up to the edge of her robe. “And you love me.”
Her fingers tugged my hair down. “Less talking. More therapy.”
I obliged—worshipping her with every movement, every kiss, every stolen breath. We moved like fire and thunder, a storm barely contained in glass walls and soft lighting.
She clawed at my back. I marked her neck. The robe slipped off, silk pooling like melted night.
And just when I had her beneath me, both of us tangled in heat and whispered names—
KNOCK KNOCK
The sharp rap of knuckles on glass snapped us out of our molten haze.
We both froze.
Krystal groaned, dragging the robe across her chest. “If that’s Bernard with the post, I swear I’ll have him reassigned to Antarctica.”
I laughed and pulled a blanket from the couch, tossing it over us. “Well. This is a first.”
She tilted her head and arched a brow. “What is?”
“Getting cockblocked by your butler.”
She burst into laughter, even as her cheeks flushed and she tried to fix her lipstick using the reflection off her wine glass.
“Send him away,” she whispered.
I grinned. “Oh, I will. But when I come back…” I kissed her again, slow and deep, just to hear that sigh. “...we’re finishing this therapy session. Full prescription. No interruptions.”
I came back into the living room with the champagne bottle in one hand—frosted, still glistening with droplets. No robe. Just sweatpants riding low and bare skin that still carried her scent.
Krystal was lounging across the velvet chaise like she ruled kingdoms. She probably did. Her silk robe had fallen open just enough to show the curve of her thigh and the glint of her necklace—the one I gave her, nestled right above her heart. I could still taste her on my lips. I set the bottle on the table with a soft clink.
She looked at me slowly, eyes flicking over my chest like she was deciding which part she wanted to kiss first.
"You're overdressed," she murmured.
I smirked. “Funny. That’s what I was going to say.”
I knelt by the couch, trailing my hand up her calf, over her knee, until I was tugging the robe wider open, claiming space like I belonged there. And I did. Every inch of her knew it. Every sigh, every shiver.
Krystal leaned forward, arms snaking around my shoulders as if she wanted to memorize the planes of my back. Her fingers dragged down my spine, her breath brushing my ear.
“You know,” she whispered, “there’s an entire penthouse to conquer.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I murmured. “Room by room.”
But then—a knock.
The sharp sound of wood against polished steel.
Krystal groaned. “That better be an earthquake or God Himself.”
I pulled back with a groan that matched hers, standing as I ran a hand through my hair. “It’s the butler. Antarctica.”
Krystal muttered, “I will personally drown Antarctica in a lake of expired Perrier if he keeps this up.”
I chuckled, adjusting my sweatpants with an exaggerated sigh. “Be right back. Don’t move. Or do. Just keep being unfairly hot.”
I padded barefoot to the door, cracked it open, and there he was—Antarctica, our elderly butler with the posture of a knight and the timing of a horror movie jumpscare.
“Sir,” he said with no expression whatsoever, “the Italian caterer called. They said your specific request for ‘aphrodisiac truffle pasta’ cannot be fulfilled due to supply issues in Sardinia.”
I blinked.
Krystal behind me yelled, “Tell Sardinia to choke!”
I bit my lip to stop from laughing. “Understood. Please—get them to send anything that doesn't scream ‘celibacy.’ And Antarctica?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Next time you need something, knock twice and wait ten seconds. Unless we’re under attack.”
He bowed solemnly. “Of course, sir. My apologies. Enjoy your... negotiations.”
I shut the door and turned around.
Krystal was on the couch, one leg propped up, hair tumbling over her shoulder, robe halfway off—waiting.
“Did he offer you a cup of celibacy?” she teased.
I stalked back toward her. “No. But I told him to send a warning before entering enemy territory again.”
She reached for me and whispered, “Then what are you waiting for, Mr. Johnson? Let’s finish this war.”
I kissed her hard, hands slipping under silk, claiming what was mine. The champagne popped somewhere behind us, but neither of us cared.
Her skin was fire and silk, and my name sounded different when she moaned it.
“Darren…”
It wasn’t just a sound. It was surrender and challenge and need—all in one breathless whisper. The way she said it made me lose every ounce of control I’d fought to keep since I saw her lounging in that robe earlier. It fell off her shoulders now, pooling behind her like a storm cloud made of satin.
I lifted her gently off the chaise, and she locked her legs around my waist with a hungry smile.
“You’re trouble,” I said, voice rough against her ear as I carried her across the living room.
“And you’re late,” she murmured, dragging her lips down my neck. “Now fix it.”
Her back hit the wall first. Then the floor. Then the thick rug by the fireplace, with champagne still bubbling behind us on the marble table—forgotten. The city glittered behind the glass windows, but in here, it was just us.
Just moans. Kisses. Skin against skin.
I kissed her slowly at first, as if memorizing her again. The softest brush of my lips on her collarbone made her arch, a low moan escaping her lips.
“You drive me crazy,” I said, voice low and reverent. “You always have.”
Krystal grabbed my face, fingers in my hair, eyes burning into mine. “Then lose your mind with me, Darren. Right here.”
We collapsed into each other like heat and storm. My mouth trailed kisses down her throat, across her shoulder, tasting her skin as her fingers dug into my back. The rug under us might as well have been the clouds. She wrapped around me like a secret I wanted to keep forever—legs, arms, her breath against my neck.
Her name spilled from my lips like a vow. “Krystal…”
Her moans echoed through the high ceilings, bouncing off the marble and glass like music. Her robe was gone now, forgotten. Her hands were everywhere—my chest, my jaw, lower. Fingertips like fire, touch like a command.
And I obeyed.